The Greek Tycoon’s Disobedient Bride

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘YES?’ Ophelia enquired frostily as the door spread back in an ever-widening arc. It was a challenge not to react physically to her sudden view of Lysander, for the minute she saw him she became intensely aware of him. It wasn’t just that he was gorgeous and intensely, unashamedly masculine. It wasn’t even his vibrant aura of energy that attracted her most. It was the powerful buzz of his presence that excited her to the point that she literally held her breath.

Dense black lashes semi-screened Lysander’s stunning bronze gaze and a wicked smile of amusement marked his stubborn, passionate mouth. She might not have been poised by the front door, but she had most definitely been waiting for him. Her crystalline blue eyes glimmered like stars in her heart-shaped face. Her tension and unease were so palpable in the delicate contours of her face and the tautness of her slight figure that his exasperation evaporated. He strode forward and snatched her up into his arms with raw masculine enthusiasm.

‘Sta diavolo…I thought I was never going to get here, yineka mou!’

‘Lysander!’ she squeaked and it wasn’t supposed to be a squeak, it was supposed to be a freezing reproof. But once again he had taken her totally by surprise and had steamrollered over her defences before she could muster a more forbidding stance.

‘I haven’t tasted you since the day before yesterday,’ Lysander declared thickly against the tremulous line of her mouth. Then, pulling her right into him, he strode with her out of the room, both arms wrapped round her in a potent embrace. ‘For a man of my strong appetites that is a very long time, hara mou.’

His deep accented drawl shimmied down her taut spine like a velvet caress.

‘P-put me down,’ Ophelia stammered in a hoarse undertone.

‘You don’t mean that, not now that you finally have me all to yourself. I will never ignore your existence again,’ Lysander husked, letting his white teeth nibble at her lower lip and taking advantage of her strangled gasp to dip his tongue into the moist tender interior of her mouth, which she had attempted to deny him.

Her slim fingers clenched the springy depths of his black hair. He used his tongue to dart and thrust with erotic mastery and she shivered violently in his hold. Her body was awakening in a feverish burst of response that was so powerful it almost hurt. She tried to think, to reason, at virtually the same moment that he pushed her flat on a yielding surface. Her heart was pounding fit to burst. He thrust her green cotton top out of his way and dealt even more expeditiously with the wisp of silk and lace that covered the pouting mounds of her breasts as they rose and fell with the rapidity of her breathing.

Stunned by the speed with which events were unfolding and the humming urgency of her own quivering body, Ophelia froze. Her brain might not feel that agile, but the baring of her skin for Lysander’s touch sent her mental alarm bells jangling and she whipped up her hands to cover herself. ‘I mustn’t…’ she told him.

‘And I must,’ Lysander traded with amusement, bending his arrogant dark head to taste her full pink mouth with slow, delicious intensity.

The shimmer of desire washing through her taut length became a hot greedy surge that centred on the pulse at the damp, hot heart of her body. She dug her hips into the mattress in an unconscious need to ease that ache while her palms dropped away from her chest.

‘Do that again,’ she heard herself whisper.

And he did. Somewhere in the back of her mind she recognised the faint heady aroma of a fragrance that was familiar to her. Her bewildered senses and preoccupied brain attempted to cut through the confused feeling that something didn’t fit. He closed his hands over hers to lift her back against the pillows.

Eyes brilliant with hunger, he paused to admire the jutting fullness of her bare breasts. ‘Delectable,’ he purred, skimming a thumb over a rigid rosy nipple so that her teeth clenched together in helpless reaction.

Her eyes were shut tight. He lowered his head and captured the lush, tender peak with his mouth and his fingers. In the same instant that she clutched at his shoulder to steady herself and her wanton body was racked by an explosion of excruciating pleasure, she recognised the mysterious scent that had tugged at her memory and almost simultaneously appreciated why it had felt so wrong. It was a woman’s perfume, not a man’s cologne.

‘You’ve been with someone else…’ Ophelia framed, sick and empty with shock as she made that obvious deduction.

Lysander straightened with a frown. ‘What did you say?’

Ophelia wrenched down her top with shaking hands and scrambled clumsily off the bed. Both responses were instinctive. Her skin felt cold and clammy. How could she have been so stupid? She spread a stricken glance round the room, which she had earlier deemed an adult playroom for a man who preferred sexual variety to steady relationships. Well, she could not say that she had not been warned.

‘What’s wrong?’ Lean, strong face taut, Lysander was studying her with concerned bronze eyes.

Ophelia folded her arms because she was afraid he would see that she was shaking. Her legs were all woolly and wobbly. She felt utterly betrayed and foolish. ‘That’s why you stayed in Athens last night. You were with another woman.’

Lysander had fallen still. He had no idea what had sparked off the accusation and he had no intention of responding to it. He had a policy of never explaining or denying such allegations and it had served him well since the teen years. He didn’t do jealous scenes. He didn’t soothe tantrums. He didn’t go there at all.

‘Don’t you dare stand there looking at me like I’ve lost my wits!’ Ophelia slung at him, her temper rising as her nervous tension ran off the scale.

‘What do you expect?’ Lysander enquired with abrasive cool. ‘One minute we’re making love and the next you call a halt without warning and start trying to stage an argument.’

Her indignation was increasing in direct proportion to his cold-blooded lack of concern. ‘You’ve got about as much feeling inside you as the rocks on the beach!’

‘But you have more than enough for both of us, glikia mou,’ Lysander countered, smooth as silk in his satire.

That retaliation struck Ophelia like a sobering slap. He could not have made it clearer that he didn’t care how she felt. How could she have slept with a guy willing to treat her like this? A hurricane of stormy emotion clawed at her. On some level she suspected that if she paused for thought and actually faced what she was feeling it might destroy her. She had ignored her misgivings, turned her back on what she knew to be right and succumbed to the temptation he offered. So if she couldn’t resist Lysander, did that make her one bit better than the women who couldn’t resist him or his wealth?

‘Your jacket smells of a woman’s perfume,’ Ophelia told him resolutely. She was giving him one more chance to explain himself without knowing when she had made the decision to give him an extra opportunity, which he most certainly did not deserve.

Handsome head at an imperious angle, dark, deep-set gaze stony, Lysander lifted and dropped a shoulder in a fluid shrug that just roared bone-deep stubborn insolence. ‘I don’t do scenes like this.’

All fired up and desperate to hear him assure her that her suspicions were wildly off beam, Ophelia could not believe that that was all he was prepared to offer her in the way of explanation. ‘You don’t do-?’

‘I don’t accept being shouted at either,’ Lysander delivered icily.

‘If you imagine that that was a shout, I wouldn’t like to think how you would react to the genuine article.’ Flushed and rigid, Ophelia rested defiant blue eyes on him and tilted her chin. She would have no peace of mind until she knew the worst and had never ducked bad news in her life. ‘Were you with someone else last night? I have the right to know.’

Lysander dealt her a smouldering appraisal. ‘You have the right to nothing.’

Her slender hands snapped into tight fists by her side. ‘Oh, yes, I do. We’re married. If you’d kept it platonic and everything was fake, then I wouldn’t have the right to question you like this. But you wouldn’t settle for that arrangement,’ she reminded him fiercely. ‘So, either this is a marriage or it isn’t. You can’t have it both ways.’

‘No comment.’

It was the last straw for Ophelia. She lifted the water carafe by the bed and chucked it at him. She didn’t think about doing it, she simply closed her hand round the glass bottle and slung it with all her might. He ducked, which infuriated her, and the glass smashed against the wall, sending pieces of glass and drops of water flying in all directions.

‘I need a shower,’ Lysander imparted with hauteur. ‘Hopefully you’ll have calmed down by the time I reappear, yineka mou.’

‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Ophelia advised shakily.

In the smouldering silence, Lysander removed his jacket and tossed it on the bed. He was furious with her. How dared she start ranting and raving and throwing things at him? He couldn’t believe it, but he had married a bunny-boiler! He would have dumped her if he weren’t married to her. Although he wouldn’t have dumped her until she had apologised. No, he thought with seething fury, not until he had her in his bed begging for release or on her knees pleading for forgiveness.

‘These rooms say all there is to know about your attitude to women,’ Ophelia condemned in a driven rush of pent-up feeling. ‘You just use us with contempt.’

Lysander swung round. Metallic eyes landed on her like lightning rods. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘The designer clothes in multi-sizes in the wardrobes. Payment for services received?’ she questioned in a voice that was very close to breaking, stark strain etched in her fragile bone structure. ‘You don’t treat women like equals. You keep them at a distance. You prefer to buy sex or should I call it…rewarding your lovers with very expensive presents?’

Lysander was incensed by that indictment of his character. ‘The rich are expected to be generous. I like my guests to enjoy themselves. I won’t apologise for that.’

Ophelia compressed her lips. ‘I-’

‘Be careful how you refer to my sexual partners when you’re one of them and when you’ve cost me much more than any other woman in the short time I’ve known you,’ Lysander drawled in sardonic continuance.

His derision was unconcealed. Ophelia was frozen to the spot by the mortifying truth of his retort. The angry colour bled out from beneath her complexion. ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be’ had been one of her grandmother’s favourite maxims, because once those lines were blurred obligations were formed. And Ophelia was all too well aware that she had put herself in hock to Lysander through the household bills for Madrigal Court that he’d paid, the repairs he had instigated and also through the clothes and the jewellery he had bought her.

‘But I didn’t even want to know you, never mind marry you and be stuck out here on your stupid island,’ Ophelia whispered tightly, fighting very hard to retain her self-control while rage and tears burned the backs of her eyes. ‘Away from my home, from Haddock and my garden…’

‘Ripping me off for every penny you can get does entail some sacrifice,’ Lysander dropped in with withering cool.

Forced to recall the angry words she had hurled on their wedding day, Ophelia registered that for every action there was a reaction when Lysander was concerned. He hit back hard-and he had just hit back with the hardest blow ever when she’d felt horribly vulnerable. The bathroom door closed. She dived on his jacket and sniffed at the expensive material like a bloodhound. But the elusive scent of the famous designer perfume was unmistakable and could only have been acquired by very close contact.

Her stomach lurching, Ophelia shivered violently. Lysander was perfectly capable of making love to two women in one day. According to Pamela, Lysander’s libido was the stuff of legend in the tabloids. She closed her eyes tight. He had had sex with another woman. Stark, unwelcome imagery attacked her imagination. She broke out in a sweat when she found herself inadvertently picturing his lean brown body erotically entwined with a sinuous brunette. In fact she felt so nauseous that she had to sit down and lower her head in an effort to overcome the sickness. Was the woman his mistress? Naturally he wouldn’t answer her questions when he was guilty as charged. He wouldn’t defend himself, make excuses or apologise or promise that it would never happen again. He believed that he had every right to do as he liked.

So why did she feel as if someone had plunged a skewer through her heart? Why was she shaking all over like an accident victim? Why was there this giant agonised pain inside her? After all, wasn’t Lysander behaving exactly as any sane and intelligent woman could have forecast? One woman at a time-fidelity-was not the Metaxis way. She knew that better than anyone. Aristide Metaxis had never restricted himself to a single partner either and growing up with that example within his own home must have made its mark on Lysander, his son.

Ophelia forced herself upright again. It was the wrong moment to get bogged down in analysing emotions that had no bearing whatsoever on her plight. It was practicalities she had to deal with. She was so angry with him for hurting and humiliating her that she was trembling like a leaf. But she was already working out what she had to do to break free, as there was no way that she would allow Lysander to betray her trust. She wondered when money had begun to seem so important to her that she had decided to do wrong in the belief that it would cause no harm and indeed bring about a greater good. The sensible way out of her predicament seemed both clear and simple.

In the room where she had slept the night before, she pulled out a bag and repacked the few items she had brought from home. She ignored the clothes he had bought her and even stripped down to her bare skin to discard his fancy underwear. She wanted nothing from him. In fact she wanted nothing more to do with him ever.

‘Kyria Metaxis…’ Stamitos, Lysander’s security chief, was crossing the hall when she appeared. ‘How may I help you?’

‘I’d like to go to the village. I’ll drive myself.’

There was a tiny instant of hesitation before Stamitos insisted on carrying her bag for her and personally showed her out to the garage block, which contained an entire line of cars. She was eager to make her departure before Lysander realised that she had gone. She asked if a ferry service to one of the bigger islands ran from the harbour. The older man told her that the ferry would be there early the next morning. The most easily accessible car in the garage was a low black flashy sports model, with a name she didn’t recognise. Chucking her bag into the passenger seat with alacrity, Ophelia extended her hand for the keys.

‘Let me drive you, Kyria,’ Stamitos suggested, looking worried. ‘It’s a very fast car.’

‘I can manage.’ Ophelia jumped in, adjusted the seat as best she could and reversed the car like a rally driver.

The afternoon sun was strong in a bright blue sky as the car roared throatily down the road, speeding by lush woods on one side and the sea on the other as it sparkled in the sunlight. She would rent a room in the village for the night. Absorbed in reckoning whether or not she had enough cash, she rounded a corner and had to slam on the brakes hard to avoid goats on the road. The back wheels went into a skid. A massive tree swam into view and, like a slow-motion horror replay with screeching metallic sound effects, the car grated its length on the trunk before coming to a halt just past it.

Her heart was thumping as if she had run the marathon. Shaken but unhurt, Ophelia jumped out and raced round the bonnet of the car to get a look at the damage. She groaned out loud. Dented and badly scraped, the once glossy paintwork of the passenger side was now a dim memory. She wondered how much the repairs would cost and, in Lysander’s immortal words, decided that she didn’t do regret. At least all the goats were alive to skip around another day and Lysander would stay popular with his neighbours. She had used the art of thinking positively to get through all the worst times in her life, she reminded herself with determination. Why had she lost that habit virtually the same day she had first met Lysander?

She drove on to the village and parked beside the harbour taverna, which had an accommodation sign. A bunch of men were playing backgammon and chatting in the shade of a giant walnut tree. Silence fell when she went up to the bar and requested a room. A waiter noticed the vehicle outside and shouted something. Everyone had to know that it was Lysander’s boy-toy car; no doubt the damage had been noticed and they were all making appallingly basic jokes about woman drivers. An outburst of whistles, gasps and comments followed. She could feel her face burning and wished she had abandoned the car on the road. The motherly woman behind the bar asked if she was all right and offered her tea. It was a relief to be shown up to a charming room with a wood floor, a brass bed and pale curtains fluttering in the sea breeze. Feeling overheated in her denim jeans and top, she decided to freshen up in the shower rather than sit and wallow in a misery she refused to acknowledge…

Lysander, who was proud of his absolute control over his temper, saw the yawning space where his Pagani Zonda had been and loosed an anguished groan, raked his fingers through his black hair and almost punched the wall. It was less than three days since he had become a husband, and his wife had left him already. Left him. Marriage was much harder work than he had ever imagined it would be. Instead of doing what any normal bunny-boiler would do and cutting up his suits, Ophelia had walked out and he’d watched as she’d driven off in his favourite car. For a male accustomed to constant female pursuit and adulation, such an excess of retaliation was a severe shock. A woman had never left Lysander before, although he had given many women good cause to do so. He was in alien territory. When had a random trace of perfume become proof of extra-marital sex? Why was Ophelia always looking for a way to leave him and escape their marriage? It was bloody insulting! Why had he picked the only woman alive who wasn’t happy to live in luxury on a beautiful private island?

He drove two hundred yards down the road and ground to an emergency stop when he saw the tyre tracks across the verge and the black paint slashes on the tree. His stomach lurched inside him. She’d had an accident and nobody had told him! He raked down to the harbour, stopped by the Pagani and leapt out.

The old men below the walnut tree waved and called out cheerful greetings.

‘My wife?’ Lysander demanded, striding into the bar but already reassured by their manner.

Unimpeded rage roared back through him again in a dam-burst of energising force when he learned that she had taken a room. He took the stairs two at a time and rapped on the door.

After her shower, Ophelia had wrapped herself in a towel and lain down on top of the bed to keep cool. She thought it was the tea she had been promised and opened the door. Dismayed by Lysander’s appearance, she fell back a step. ‘What are you doing here?’

Even that question was an affront to Lysander in the mood that he was in. He studied her with lacerating force. Her golden hair was tousled, her creamy skin flushed and her ripe curves were covered only by a small pink towel. His view of her full rounded breasts and shapely legs was not one that he would have liked any other man to enjoy. That it bothered him annoyed him, for he had never cared what his lovers wore or how much other men looked at them. He had never been a possessive man. Indeed when it came to women easy come, easy go might have been his motto.

‘You should’ve asked who was outside before you unlocked the door,’ Lysander told his wife flatly. ‘Get dressed.’

Pale blue eyes evasive, Ophelia retreated as far as the bed. ‘I’m not coming back, Lysander. We fought all the way to the altar and we’ve fought continually even during the very small amount of time you’ve spent with me since we got married. I’m getting on the ferry tomorrow and I’m going home.’

‘I will not allow it.’

‘No Neanderthal tactics,’ Ophelia warned. ‘I’m being sensible. Take me to court, bankrupt me, whatever. It won’t get you anywhere because I don’t want your money, I don’t even want my inheritance any more-I just want my life back.’

Lysander dragged in a deep shuddering breath. Her strained eyes and steady intonation telegraphed sincerity and resolve. Her flight wasn’t a cry for his attention; she was deadly serious about leaving him. Ferocious tension leapt through his big powerful frame. For the first time in his adult life he felt close to being out of control. Rage was licking round the edges of his every thought like a dark threatening shadow and it unnerved him. He always knew exactly what he was doing, but just at that moment his next potential move was shrouded in mental fog. ‘You can have a life with me.’

‘I don’t want to be rude or start another argument, but life with you is hell.’

Lysander went rigid. Her slightly apologetic tone hit him like an accompanying slap.

A silence that pulsed with undertones hung in the air between them.

Ophelia shot Lysander an anxious glance, her delicate features tight with apprehension. He realised that she meant every word and was afraid of his reaction. As though he were some kind of domineering bully likely to push her around. And possibly lift her up, carry her out to the car wrapped in a sheet and sort out their problems within the privacy of his own four walls. His lean brown hands clenched into fists of restraint lest he prove her right in her suspicions. He didn’t like what he was feeling. He didn’t like the strange effect she had on him, the bizarre way she infiltrated his thoughts and hijacked his intelligence. He wondered if her emotional excess was contagious and decided to concentrate on basic facts.

‘You’re actually staging a walkout because you caught a whiff of perfume on my suit?’

Ophelia reddened at the sardonic intonation he employed and straightened her slight shoulders. ‘Yes.’

His shout of laughter made her flinch. His brilliant eyes assailed her in blatant challenge. ‘Don’t you realise that after that interview you gave, I couldn’t possibly sleep with another woman without it making headlines? You’ll soon find out if I have an affair,’ he forecast with derision. ‘When you said you were living a fairy tale and I adored you, it was like hurling a challenge at the paparazzi. The media attention will be relentless. They’ll watch me day and night when I’m off the island in the hope of catching me cheating on you. Sex scandals sell newspapers.’

Ophelia stared back at him in consternation, for that possibility had not occurred to her. At the same time, however, he was telling her that she had misjudged him, even if he was doing so in a cynical manner that ensured he did not have to actually defend himself or plead innocence. Her head swam a little as she grasped that all-important fact: he hadn’t been with another woman. Of course, she had already decided to leave him and whether he had been unfaithful or otherwise shouldn’t influence that decision. But, for an alarming instant, she couldn’t think beyond the fact that he had stayed loyal to her and she could not deny the tide of relief flooding her.

‘I didn’t think the publicity angle through,’ she admitted. ‘I suppose I didn’t care. I only gave that interview to Pamela’s brother to wind you up.’

Lysander studied her with unadulterated incredulity. ‘You deliberately set out to annoy me?’

Ophelia evaded his gaze, for, said out loud like that, her plan sounded impossibly childish. ‘I thought if I annoyed you or embarrassed you enough, you’d stop insisting I pretend to be your wife and let me go.’

‘But in the short term you’d sleep with me, giving every impression of enjoyment?’ Lysander slotted in smooth as silk. ‘Where does that fit into this scenario?’

Ophelia breathed in so deep she was surprised she didn’t inflate, while her complexion turned a similar colour to her towel. ‘I don’t want to discuss that.’

‘Naturally not. But you do acknowledge that you send out very mixed signals? And that talking as though you have just escaped imprisonment and certain death in Bluebeard’s castle is rather exaggerated?’

Ophelia tried not to flinch at that scathing comment. She made a desperate effort to change the subject and, with her conscience twanging, opted to be honest with him. ‘Look, I don’t know how everything’s got so horribly complicated-’

‘Maybe it’s the fact that you argue about everything-’

‘Or maybe it’s the fact that you just have to be right and have the last word every time-’

‘The point being?’ Lysander prompted drily.

Her eyes flashed. ‘I only agreed to marry you in the first place because I thought it would help me find my sister, Molly. I knew I should be sharing any inheritance I got with her. I was planning to use the money from the sale of the house to trace her.’

Lysander was bewildered. ‘Your sister? You want to find her? Where is she? I don’t understand.’

Ophelia explained to him the story of how she had lost contact with Molly, admitting that she had got her hopes up when the solicitor had mentioned the letter set aside for her wedding day. ‘I was convinced it would contain information about Molly.’

‘But that letter contained the second will, and the existence of a sister wasn’t mentioned in either will.’

‘Gran was ashamed of the fact that Molly was illegitimate. There was also a tiny note placed with the second will saying that Molly had been adopted. I think Gran encouraged me to believe there’d be something important in that letter so that I’d marry you. When I realised that my sister had been put up for adoption I felt like I’d run into a brick wall.’ Painful tears sprang to Ophelia’s eyes and her voice thickened. ‘I don’t even know what her name is now, or anything about her. How am I supposed to track her down?’

Lysander was disconcerted by her story and his usual cynicism was forestalled by her clear distress. ‘I can help you find her. Believe me, there are ways. You should have confided in me before this.’

Ophelia stole a wary glance at him, hope and fear battling inside her. ‘Why? All you wanted was the house and you didn’t care who you had to walk over or what you had to do to get it on your terms.’

For about five seconds, Lysander met her beautiful ice-blue eyes before she looked away. She looked so sad and that made him feel angry and uncomfortable. His superb bone structure was taut, his stubborn mouth set in a bleak line.

‘Confide in you?’ Ophelia repeated in an afterthought, resentment stirred to new heights by that unfair reproof. ‘Nobody in their right mind would confide in you-you wouldn’t be interested.’

‘Of course I’m interested in you!’ Lysander contradicted in fierce disagreement.

Extreme tension hummed in the atmosphere. She lifted her golden head. ‘You’re much more interested in business.’

‘Have you any idea how many thousands of people depend on me for employment? Of the responsibility I carry in a crisis?’

Her eyes fell from his and she shuffled her bare feet because she was all too conscious of her ignorance. ‘No,’ she said ruefully.

Lysander surveyed her with mounting fascination. No, she didn’t have a clue about the stock-market crisis and only understood or cared when he related it to potential job losses. She had already abandoned a pearl and diamond necklace that was worth a king’s ransom, while neglecting to stay married to him for a reasonable length of time would, according to the terms of the pre-nup, lose her a small fortune. Yet she was still prepared to turn her back on any prospect of personal enrichment and leave him. On the ferry. How could she possibly be a gold-digger? No gold-digger would be so hopelessly impractical or uninformed of what was in her own best interests.

‘I want you to stay,’ he breathed grittily.

Her golden head bent, Ophelia made a tiny awkward movement with her hands. ‘I can’t. I know it’s inconvenient for you if I leave-’

Inconvenient? The use of that word was a positive affront to Lysander because it suggested that their marriage was a trivial matter. His strong jaw clenching, he forced himself to swallow back an angry response.

‘Even though I don’t understand why and I’m sorry. But I can’t live with you-’

‘You’re bailing out in the first week. How impressive is that? You’re my wife…’

‘Not really, I’m not-’

‘You’re my wife. Come back to the house with me, moraki mou,’ Lysander urged in a roughened undertone.

‘What would be the point?’ Ophelia was so wound up that her voice ran out of breath on the words.

Lysander swung over to the window in a storm of frustration. What did she want from him? What was he supposed to say or do? What more did she expect? The point was that he wanted her in his bed and that was that. Elaborate declarations were not his style. The seething tension in his broad shoulders spoke for him.

Her attention welded to his lean, powerful frame, Ophelia heard herself say hesitantly, ‘I mean…why are you asking me?’

And she was ashamed that she was sinking to the level of voicing that question and backtracking to the point where she betrayed a willingness to reconsider a position she had believed unassailable. Why hadn’t she stood firm against his arguments? Giving way to Lysander had already cost her peace of mind, her self-esteem and her values.

Swift to pick up on that potential shift in attitude, Lysander wheeled back round to face her in a movement that was remarkably graceful for a male of his powerful build and size. Stunning metallic eyes glittering, he focused on her with mesmeric force. ‘Obviously because I want you.’

‘I’m sure you’ve wanted lots of women,’ Ophelia mumbled, slender fingers plucking uneasily at the bedspread, ‘but you didn’t want any of them for very long.’

Lysander gritted his even white teeth at that unwelcome response, for it was not one with which he could reasonably argue. ‘I want a normal marriage.’

Ophelia finally gave him her full attention, glancing up at him with wide astonished eyes, for that assurance was much more ground-breaking than any she had expected to hear. ‘A normal marriage? But you spend all your time ignoring me!’ she gasped.

‘It’s only day four…all this is new to me.’

Day four-was it good that he was counting the hours?

‘When you say normal…are you still planning on the fourteen-month time limit that you once mentioned?’ Ophelia enquired.

‘Ordinary marriages don’t have a limit. Are you staying?’ Razor-edged impatience was slicing through Lysander, narrowing his keen gaze and sharpening the angle of his fabulous cheekbones. He had no interest in discussing the finer details, he simply wanted an answer from her: yes or no.

With very little thought and even less encouragement, Ophelia could have cheerfully asked Lysander another twenty questions at least. Intense curiosity had attacked her. A normal marriage? He had knocked her every expectation flat and startled her with that admission. What had brought about his change of heart? When had he decided he wasn’t prepared to let her go? Could he pinpoint the exact moment and what had led to it? What did he find most attractive about her? Least attractive? What made her different from the legions of women who had preceded her? In short, why her and not someone else more beautiful, more accomplished, more his style? Because she wasn’t his style, was she? She pushed that sudden uneasy reflection to the back of her mind while acknowledging that more questions would exasperate him. For whatever reasons, Lysander had decided that he wanted to retain her as a wife.

‘Ophelia…’ Lysander prompted in a low growl.

All of a sudden happiness was surging through Ophelia like a river breaking its banks to forge a new course and it frightened her. An ordinary marriage with a guy who was anything but ordinary. He was gorgeous and charismatic and unpredictable. He filled her every thought, influenced her every mood. In the space of three days he had taught her that he was incredible in bed and a world-class disaster as a husband. Cold and distant, he had the power to destroy a vulnerable woman, since there was nothing crueller than indifference. His only passion was sexual, while her emotions ran much deeper. Love had made a victim of her mother and she didn’t want to join that club. On the other hand, her late parent had not been married to the object of her affections.

Lysander had moved closer. He brushed long brown fingers through the tangle of glossy blonde hair tumbling over her slight, bare shoulder. Her skin was white and as fine in grain as porcelain against his. The faint evocative aroma of soap clung to her. He found it incredibly sexy. He watched her breathing quicken, her narrow chest rise and fall as she became aware of his touch and proximity. A tremor ran through her reed-slender body. Her long gold-tipped brown lashes concealed her amazing eyes, but the delicate flush of colour on her cheeks told him all he needed to know.

‘You are already mine,’ Lysander husked with raw satisfaction.

For the first time in several unbearably tense minutes Ophelia allowed herself to look at him. Her defiant gaze locked to his hard, handsome features. ‘No…’

‘Liar,’ Lysander fielded, his dark deep accented drawl making a meal of the contradiction. ‘You’re on fire for me, yineka mou.’

Ophelia snatched in a hunted breath. He had her cornered. The atmosphere sizzled. Oxygen seemed to be in short supply. A hum of erotic awareness was pulsing through her and she was helpless in its hold. His hot, hungry scrutiny held her with spellbinding force. He loosened the towel with assured hands. A slight sound escaped her as the fabric fell at her feet.

‘I love looking at you,’ Lysander murmured thickly, his attention raking over the sweet curve of her pouting breasts, the quivering tips of her delicate nipples and the pale silky curls that screened her femininity.

His lean, strong face was intent as he lifted her onto the bed and arranged her slim body for his visual pleasure. Excitement and shame engulfed her, but still she couldn’t break free. She thought of the bag she had packed, the proud promises she had made to herself, the independent spirit she had believed she could rely on in any crisis. And yet, in the space of a moment, everything had changed because he had made her an offer she hadn’t the strength to refuse, even though staying was most probably a mistake. After all, she longed to be loved, while all he required from her was sex…